One Equal Temper of Heroic Hearts, Made Weak by Time and Fate
by Lily Thistle
Summary: Sherlock has to spend his summer holidays with his family in Scotland. Dull.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I wrote this for my friend Vera as a birthday present, because she's my bff 5eva. She gave me permission to publish it - in other words, to traumatise other people with either my writing or this story. You decide.

The title is, of course, from Tennyson's poem "Ulysses".

* * *

There comes a time when parents are eagerly waiting for their children to finance their own holidays, to leave their parents behind while they go out exploring the world all by themselves. But that lasts one or maybe two summers long, and never more than one Christmas break. Then they're back to "we never see you anymore!" "When will you come and visit us?" "We're not planning on going anywhere this July and you're more than welcome to stay with us."

Sherlock's parents (or rather his mother, since his father had died some years ago) were currently in the phase of this development in which they (or rather she) were trying to convince him to come and stay with them (or rather her) during the summer vacation. Sherlock's initial response had been a declining one, of course. He was not willing to spend weeks and weeks in the company of his mother and, which was even worse, his grandmother (on his father's side). But, to his great misfortune he was related to one Mycroft Holmes who could be very persuasive when it came to his family. It was not as if he was planning to attend any family gatherings this summer. You see, the thing about Mycroft Holmes was that he was far too busy and far too important to leave London, even if it was only for a few days. But Sherlock – Sherlock had enough time on hand, had he not? University was not such a big deal. The only thing that worried people at university was that they were not able to fit all the parties they were invited to into their already overflowing party-schedules.

To cut a long story short, at the beginning of July Sherlock found himself in a first class compartment on a train on its way to Scotland. The Holmes family owned a mansion somewhere in the Highlands. It was rather beautiful there, if you enjoyed rain, and clouds, and meadows which swayed in the forceful untameable wind, and temperatures that never climbed over 20 degrees, not even during the summer. Sherlock was not an appreciator of meadows that were slowly torn to shreds or fanciful cloud formations and he wasn't bothered by rain or low temperatures. He would much rather have stayed in London, where there were people, and noise, and excitement, and criminals to hunt, and crimes to solve. But no, he had to travel to Scotland, where there were hardly any people around, where it was eerily and unnaturally quiet most of the time (except for the wind of course, which howled with the power of a jet plane taking off), and where a criminal mastermind was someone who managed to steal their neighbour's sheep without them noticing. Yes, Sherlock was in for the most boring summer vacation ever.

* * *

Holmes Manor was less a mansion than a solid castle which looked like something out of a Gothic novel thanks to some reconstructions at the beginning of the 19th century. It was surrounded by steep, green hills all around and heather, and thistles, and grass that was so thick and sharp that it could leave deep, bleeding cuts on any exposed part of the body it came into contact with. A stony, narrow road was the only way that led to the mansion, unless you wanted to swim through an ice-cold powerful stream and climb across the afore-mentioned mountains.

As the cab approached the mansion, Sherlock could not help but roll his eyes at the five Edwardian cars that were parked in a neat row next to the main entrance. As long as the weather was reasonably sunny (which basically meant that it was not raining), his mother ordered two servants to park the cars in the driveway, so that anyone who somehow found their way to the mansion could see how much money the head of the house had. Sherlock would never understand this urge to display your wealth. He found it was silly, similar to a five-year-old who takes his new toy to school and rubs everyone's noses in it. "Hey, look at us, we're rich! Come and rob us maybe?" To Sherlock, this behaviour was inexplicable, because why would other people be interested in whether or not the Holmes family was wealthy or not? It had no effects on their lives, after all.

To his mother, this was the most important thing in life – showing other people how rich she was. Sherlock never failed to express his disapproval of this behaviour, but she did not listen to him. His opinion did not count while he was under her roof, and it also did not count while he was away at university. And then there was his grandmother (on his father's side). His mother, at least, stopped at showing everyone how rich she was and hardly ever talked about money, because who talks about money? People who don't have any. But his grandmother? She hardly ever talked about anything else except money, money, money. Had he heard about the job the neighbour's son had acquired recently? He now earned half a million per year. Had he heard about how well his cousin had married? She was now married to this banker who owned houses in Florida, Spain, and Japan (why would you even want to have a house in Japan, honestly?). Had he heard about the death of that one person who had somehow been related to them? He had left his son the castle up in Inverness and his daughter his company. And Sherlock did not care about any of these people. Why would he? He did not even know most of the people his grandmother talked about. He had not even heard their names before. That was the reason he hated spending his holidays with his family. They were so unbelievably boring! And his grandmother was the one who made them so boring.

Therefore, Sherlock climbed out of the cab with a heavy sigh, dreading what was to come. He heaved his suitcase out of the boot and made his way up the steps to the front door (or rather gate (or rather huge, grand double-winged, oaken gate that no average human being was able to open and that's why it was electrically operated)). He rang the bell and got some high-pitched barking as a response. Sherlock sighed again. The barking meant that his grandmother had a new dog (again), a bigger-than-usual Yorkshire Terrier, judging be the sounds it made. She changed dogs fairly often. She only "adopted" older ones, because she herself was no spring chicken. Every time a dog died, she swore to herself never to buy one again. But two months later she had a new one, an old one, which she gave so much to eat that it only managed to survive a few years, at most. And then she had to look for a new one again. All of the dogs were obnoxious, fat rats that only barked all day long and were allowed everything, from sleeping in the same bed as their mistress to attacking the sheep on the meadow near the mansion. Sherlock doubted that his stay could get any worse now.

And indeed, when a servant opened the door, a small, brown and grey fur-ball shot past him, barking its lungs out as if its little life depended on it. It circled Sherlock, not sure if it wanted to attack or to keep its distance. While Sherlock was thinking about stepping on it to shut it up, a woman appeared at the door. She was around 50, her hair was grey; she was very thin, almost unhealthily thin, wearing a close-fitting, dark green dress which made her appear even thinner.

"Shush, Lizzie," she mumbled, looking at the dog. "It's quite enough now."

But Lizzie did not think about shutting up. It continued to circle Sherlock.

"Hello dear," his mother said, trying to hug her son without accidentally stepping on the dog. "How was your journey?"

"Fine," Sherlock answered, secretly asking himself why this was of any importance.

"Do come in, dear," his mother invited him, taking him by the hand and dragging him into the entrance hall. "Bob, the suitcase," she said into the direction of a man whom Sherlock would not even have noticed if his mother had not addressed him.

Lizzie, the crazed Yorkshire Terrier, followed them into the hall, its barking becoming ten times more annoying because it was multiplied by the cold, grey stone walls.

"Sherlock, you have to say hello to your grandmother," his mother went on, nearly shouting at him to drown out the dog. "She can't wait to see you."

"I doubt that," Sherlock said to himself and then raised his voice over the barking. "I would prefer to lay down for a while first. I had to get up at five this morning to catch my train. I'm exhausted."

"Of course, dear. I'll let Bob bring you your suitcase to your room. You do, of course, remember where you room is?"

"Of course, Mummy," Sherlock replied. "I'll be down in a bit, okay?"

And with that, he made his way up the unnecessarily wide staircase to his room.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I feel compelled to tell you a few things or you'll think I'm totally crazy. Anyway, I started writing this when I visited my grandmother about a month ago. Sherlock's grandmother is based on mine and most of the things she does or says my grandmother did or said. So, yeah, I didn't make any of this up.

Also, I'm not happy with how I wrote Sherlock's mother, but if she were any different, this story wouldn't work. Actually, I always imagined her to be like Victoria (Helen Mirren) from _Red_.

* * *

Sherlock was not the least bit tired, of course. He was hardly ever tired; in fact, he could go several days without sleeping, which was, to be honest, a fairly unhealthy habit. But he would use any excuse he could to prolong his not having to talk to his grandmother, even if this meant to pretend that he was sleeping for several hours.

Surprisingly, his suitcase was already up in his room, a comfortable large chamber in the west wing of the mansion that had its own fireplace and its own balcony. Over the fireplace hung a painting that looked ancient when actually it was not – it depicted his late father, riding a horse, accompanied by his three beagles (what was it with his family and dogs?) In front of the fireplace, there was an old carpet made of fur that his mother had found at an antiques market a couple of years ago. And on the other side of the room, there stood a gigantic four-poster bed in which three to four people could have slept quite comfortably.

Sherlock ignored the freshly made bed, striding right past it to his suitcase. He opened it and started rummaging around. He finally found the book he had been looking for – the second part of a series about criminology and the achievements in this field – and he sat down in an old leather armchair in front of the fireplace, intending to spend at least the next five hours reading. Everything was better than having to listen to his grandmother's stories about money.

Another thing he did not like about coming to Scotland was that there was no internet here. His mother mistrusted this "modern nonsense", as she called it. So Sherlock was not able to work on this blog he had started writing fairly recently, about deduction and how the smallest details, no matter how insignificant they appear to be at first, could be the vital key to the solution of the problem one was facing. This bothered and annoyed him.

But even though Sherlock really tried, he was not able to hide from his family forever. He had to leave his room eventually to go down to have dinner, even though he needed food as little as he needed sleep. But his mother insisted on him joining them, even though he hardly ever touched his plate. So as Sherlock entered the dining room, he was fully prepared to face his grandmother, and her obnoxious little dog. But his mother sat alone at the dinner table.

"How was your nap, dear?" she asked as he entered the room.

"I'm not five years old anymore, Mummy," Sherlock replied while taking a seat. "I never _nap_."

As soon as he was seated, two servants rushed into the room, serving them the first of several courses. None of the inhabitants of Holmes Manor had to do anything on their own. There was a servant for everything. Sherlock had never gotten used to having someone around, doing everything for him. But he also somehow relied on that.

Sherlock's mother decided to change the subject. "We have a new cook, you know," she said while covering her lap with a napkin. "He used to work for a restaurant in Glasgow. He was one of the best there, but he decided to come and work for us."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He only picked up his fork and started to pick at his food.

"So, how are things in London?" his mother made another try at conversation.

"Fine," Sherlock replied. "The people at university are all idiots, naturally, but I'm coping."

"Sherlock!" his mother exclaimed. "I'm sure that they're not all idiots. You must have a couple of friends, at least. And I doubt that they're idiots when they're friends with you."

"No, I don't have any friends," was Sherlock's answer. "Why should I be friends with people who only ever worry about parties and girlfriends and boyfriends and about university and how they should manage not to fail this course or that course. Dull."

Sherlock's mother sighed, but did not give up. "But you must have a girlfriend by now?" she said, sounding hopefully.

Sherlock looked at the wall opposite his seat, which was, to a large part, covered by a painting of some kind of hunting dog.

"That's not really my area," he finally sad, and went on before his mother could interrupt him. "A girlfriend is just an unnecessary distraction. People tend to build their lives around their love lives when it should be the other way around. I myself have no use for that."

For the rest of the first course, Sherlock and his mother remained silent. Still, the woman tried to engage her son in a conversation.

"We have new neighbours," she informed him over the second course.

Sherlock made a non-committal sound, which encouraged his mother to continue with her story. But his thoughts started to wander; he did not really listen to what the new neighbours did or who they were.

"Yes, a family from Ireland," Sherlock's mother went on. "They bought the house down the road about two months ago, you know, the one Mrs Stoner built in the 50s. The small house next to the little pond."

"Yes, Mummy, I know," Sherlock said. "I spent nearly all my holidays here; I know which house you are talking about."

"Anyway," his mother continued as if Sherlock had never interrupted her, "they made their money with biological vegetables or something like that. I don't know a lot about these things. They also have two dogs, two beautiful Border Collies, but I'm not particularly fond of them. Once we invited them to dinner, our neighbours, I mean, and they brought the dogs along with them. It was a horrible evening, I can tell you. The first thing the dogs did was to jump on the expensive settee in the living room downstairs and because it had been raining that day, the dogs were dirty and muddy and … Anyway, we had to buy new furniture. But your grandmother loves the dog, as you can imagine."

Sherlock made "hm", not really paying attention to the story about the Border Collies.

"Now, where was I?" Sherlock's mother took a sip from her wine glass. "Our neighbours are really wonderful people otherwise. They are friendly and attentive. I think, they're incredibly likeable, even though they are not as wealthy as our other friends."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his mother did not notice.

"We have a lot in common. We're over at their place all the time. Well, I am. Vicky only ever comes with me when there's a one hundred per cent certainty that the dogs are there as well. I would rather they'd come to our house more often, because we have more room here, but their house is really comfortable as well. You have to meet them! I'm going to invite them to dinner one of these days. They have a son; he is about your age. I believe he's studying in Edinburgh. Medicine or something."

Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted by the servants who brought the next course. His mother continued talking and eating and drinking simultaneously.

"But enough about us," she said. "How's university? Are you going to graduate soon?"

Even Sherlock, who never had been good at understanding other people's emotions and thoughts, heard something like accusation in her voice.

"Yes, Mummy," he answered, picking up his glass for the first time this evening and taking a sip. "I hope to graduate right after Christmas. I think I'm setting a new university record with this."

"Well, your university doesn't have a high standard then," his mother remarked. "Mycroft graduated within two years, if you remember."

Sherlock ignored that last remark, just as he had ignored all the food.

"Mummy," he said, already bored by this dinner and this conversation, "I think I'm going to go to bed early tonight. I'm still rather tired-"

"But you can't, my dear, you can't," his mother said. "You have to watch telly with us later. Vicky will be disappointed if you don't."

Sherlock hated watching telly; it was boring and mundane, filled with shows about people who led boring lives and boring people who couldn't act. But he knew that he could not refuse, because his grandmother would insist on him attending this daily event, even though she would not take any notice of him if he was there, but if he was not, she would send a servant to his room and let him knock on his door until he would come down.

At eight o'clock, Sherlock found himself in front of the TV in the upstairs living room, hiding behind his computer, typing away, while his mother and his grandmother were watching the evening news.

"Put your typewriter thingy away, boy!" his grandmother snarled, glaring at him. "The children today are so badly brought up, aren't they, Helen?"

Sherlock did not listen to his grandmother. He put his feet up on the footstool, so that his legs were angled, and continued his typing.

"Put. Your. Computer. Away. Boy," Victoria repeated.

Sherlock sighed, shut his laptop and put it on the sofa next to him. Now he was forced to watch the news, a programme about events that happened far away, about words and images that jammed his mind and made it harder for him to remember the stuff that mattered. At the moment there was a report about an earthquake in some far away country in Asia.

In this report, they were showing ruined houses and streets. Then they interviewed a woman – she was crying and sobbed, "You know, we can rebuild the houses. The only thing we can't bring back is the people."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed inwardly, when they talked about how many people had died in the earthquake and how many were still missing. Then they showed the helpers and how the people stood together to rebuild their towns and houses.

Victoria had her own opinion on that topic. "They always talk about all the people who died. I don't understand it. Why do they always talk about people? Whether it is an earthquake or a hurricane or a tsunami, all you ever hear is how many people have died. But they never talk about the animals. Just as if they were not important. Why do they never tell us about the animals? They just don't matter, do they? Everything was better in the old days."

Sherlock cleared his throat to retort something, but a new report was on, about same-sex marriage and if same-sex couples should be allowed to adopt children. Victoria immediately started bickering about this, her second favourite topic after animals and animal rights.

Sherlock saw something out of the corner of his eye, something brown and grey that waddled into the room. The dog sat down in front of the sofa, and looked at Sherlock in an inquisitive way, as if it waited for the answers to all of life's unanswerable questions.

"Boy!" Victoria shouted. "Move your computer! The dog wants to sit there. Can't you see that?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in and out before he picked up his laptop and put it on the coffee table. Then he said: "Dogs which are allowed to sit on the sofa are more likely to attack their owners and other people, because they never learn where the boundaries are."

While the dog jumped onto the sofa (not very gracefully due to its weight), Victoria glared at Sherlock again.

"What do you know about dogs, boy?" she snarled. "You know nothing! Your brother Mycroft, on the other hand – he's very considerate. He loves dogs. When he came to visit us last month, my little baby followed him everywhere. And he always played with her and gave her treats and took her on long walks. I can't expect that from you, can I, boy?"

"Look," Sherlock said, even though he could see his mother on the other side of the sofa, slightly shaking her head. "I'm 23; I would really appreciate it if you could stop calling me _boy_. There is no reason why you should talk to me as if I was still a five-year-old."

"There is every reason in the world!" Victoria exclaimed, frightening the dog, which jumped off the sofa again, curling up in front of the TV. "You have not achieved anything in your life so far, anything that would justify me treating you like an equal. Do something to earn my respect first, boy. Take your brother Mycroft, for example-"

There were so many things Sherlock wanted to say to his grandmother; his head nearly exploded. But he simply could not. He did not want to upset his mother. And he knew that she would be upset if he said only half the things that were on his mind.

Instead, he stood up, and picked up his computer. "I'm really sorry, but I think I need to go to bed now." And with that he left the living room, accompanied by the barking of that wretched dog.

Still, he could hear Victoria, because she had to raise her voice over the noise. "That boy has no manners, no manners at all. I don't blame you, of course, my dear. It's all those people he meets at university. They are bad company."

Sherlock walked along the corridor, already thinking about that book he was reading at the moment, when he came past his grandmother's room. The door stood ajar and he could not resist the urge to have a look inside. When he was little, this room had been off limits to everyone but the staff. He did not doubt that this was still the case, which made this intrusion into his grandmother's privacy even more exciting.

The room was similar to his own. It had a balcony and an enormous four-poster bed and a fireplace, which was the only source of light. The mantelpiece was occupied by seven urns and next to each urn was a picture of a different dog. Sherlock huffed when he saw this. He would not want to share his room with the ashes of seven dead dogs. And then his look wandered above the mantelpiece.

The space above the fireplace was occupied by a portrait. It showed Victoria, and Sherlock was surprised by its accurate depiction of his grandmother. She was sitting on a little sofa, surrounded by three lap dogs. She was wearing a long, black dress that resembled a tunic. Her straight, grey hair just about covered her ears. In one hand she was holding a red rose, on her other hand sat a blackbird – the family symbols. The painter had done a great job with her eyes, though. They were cold and hard and merciless; Sherlock knew that look all too well. She never had looked at him differently.

Sherlock was so occupied with staring at the painting that he did not notice the door opening. Only when someone cleared their throat, he jumped, like a little boy who had been caught while stealing candy from the kitchen.

"Can I help you, sir?" the intruder asked.

Sherlock cleared his throat as well. "No, thank you," he said. "I was just about to leave."

The servant opened the door wider and stepped aside. As Sherlock scurried past the servant, who had burst in on him, and out the door into the corridor, he caught a scent that faintly reminded him of tea.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Chapter 3 – also known as the chapter where everyone is so out of character that it's not even funny anymore.

* * *

When Sherlock walked down the stairs the next day, it was raining. Of course. When was it not raining in Scotland? Upon entering the dining room, he was greeted by loud, high-pitched barking. And his grandmother's look – she looked even more scornful than usual.

"Do you have any idea how late it is?" she asked, while Sherlock threw himself into a chair without waiting for a servant to pull it out for him.

"No," Sherlock simply answered.

"It's lunchtime, boy," she said, glaring at Sherlock's clothes (a shirt, boxer shorts and a tartan dressing gown).

"So?" Sherlock had never understood people's needs to divide the day into certain meals. He simply ate when he was hungry, which was hardly ever, and he ate whatever he wanted, not considering what time of the day it was.

The dog had given up barking at Sherlock and was now sitting next to Victoria's chair, making weird noises that remembered Sherlock of a stranded baby whale. Victoria gave it a piece of the ham she was eating, but that only made to dog hungry for more.

"So? We have fixed eating times in this house. You can't get any breakfast now. You'll have to eat lunch with us," Victoria snapped.

"Just tea for me, thanks," Sherlock replied.

"Well, you're going to have to eat something, boy. Arthur, get him some of the cold roast meat."

A young servant hurried over to the buffet which occupied one length of the room, and filled a plate with a few pieces of cold meat. On his way back to the table, he tripped over the carpet and dropped it.

"Arthur, you idiot child!" Victoria burst out. "You have to be more careful! No, don't help him, Helen!"

Sherlock's mother had risen to assist the clumsy servant, but let herself fall back into the chair again. Sherlock watched, as Arthur cleaned up the mess.

"Mummy," Sherlock addressed his mother. "Could we get Wi-Fi for the house?"

His grandmother turned her glaring look away from Arthur and focused it on Sherlock instead. "What is this? What nonsense do you want now?"

"Internet," Sherlock explained, "to check my mails and read the newspaper and so on?"

"What are you talking about, boy?" Victoria asked in the high-pitched voice she always used when she was angry. "The mail is being delivered to our doorstep and so is the newspaper. You don't need an internet."

"Yes, but-"

"No but!" Victoria snapped.

For the rest of the meal, no one said a word. Sherlock did not touch his cold roast meat; he only drank the tea Arthur brought him eventually. The dog continued its whining and half of what was on Victoria's plate wandered into its belly.

Finally, after half an hour of silence, Victoria and the dog had finished their lunch. So she addressed Sherlock again. "Boy, I'm going to go for a walk in fifteen minutes. I want you to accompany me, because I have something to talk to you about."

Sherlock sighed heavily. "There is no reason why you can't talk to me now," he said.

"Don't get cheeky! If I want you to accompany me, you are going to accompany me," was Victoria's answer.

"But I don't want to," Sherlock said. "And you don't want to either."

"How dare you-"

"Look at your dog," Sherlock went on, not paying attention to Victoria's protest. "It's obviously been out in the rain today. How I know that? Its fur is wet. You could say that this is because it was bathed recently. But it was not, because there are leaves in the hair around its paws. They could be from your walk yesterday, but they are not. You let your dog sleep in your bed with you, but you would never do that if it wasn't completely clean; therefore you bathe it every evening before you go to bed. And yes, you probably sent one of one the servants out with the dog this morning, but you would never do that because you would not trust anyone with your _little baby_. Also, I saw you and your dog from my bedroom window this morning. And when it's raining you never go for more than one walk per day. To sum up, you don't want to go on a walk with me, so why not save us all the trouble and talk here?"

Victoria was unimpressed by Sherlock's observation skills. "Young Arthur here tells me that you went into my room yesterday evening," she said instead.

Sherlock was not a coward. But the tone in his grandmother's voice reminded him of how she had always locked him away when he had behaved badly as a child. Of course, she would not be able to do that now that he was grown-up. Still, he had to swallow before he could say: "So what if I did?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing," she said, almost smiling. "I just thought that you would like to go for a walk with me and Lizzie here."

Sherlock had now spent around 24 hours at Holmes Manor. And during that time, he had found himself in a number of situations he had not wanted to be in. But he did not know why he could not simply decline. At university, when a colleague dared to ask him if he wanted to go to a party or to the pub he gave them a sassy reply and he was not bothered again. But with his mother and grandmother he could not be mean; he just did not know why. Because normally, Sherlock Holmes did not care about what other people thought of him.

When he came down into the hall shortly after he had left the dining room, wearing a long, black coat and a blue scarf, carrying an umbrella, he found it not deserted. Next to the door stood Arthur, wearing a black Norfolk jacket, in one hand a tartan umbrella, in the other the end of a green leash, which led directly to the neck of one particular dog.

"Arthur, isn't it?" Sherlock asked instead of a greeting.

"No, it's not," the other replied.

"But my grandmother called you Arthur during lunch," Sherlock stated the obvious.

"I know," not-Arthur sighed. "She keeps doing that and I can't tell her that she's wrong, because she's my boss, and not a very nice one, when it comes to that."

"She's an evil, old hag," Sherlock added.

"Mr Holmes!" the servant exclaimed, quite shocked. "You can't talk about your grandmother like that."

Sherlock was surprised that a simple servant was brave enough to tell him what to do, and he also sensed hypocrisy there. "But you yourself just said that she is not a very nice boss."

"Yes, and that's normal. Employees are supposed to say mean things about their employers. But grandsons are not supposed to say mean things about their grandparents."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the other man's audacity and naivety, but he looked away so that his conversational partner would not be able to see it. Then he asked: "What's your name, then?"

"It's John. John Watson, sir," John said while putting out his hand which Sherlock took.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes," he responded.

"Yes, I know," John said.

"So, why are you here?" Sherlock asked, "I thought, _I_ was supposed to go for a walk with my grandmother and her," he hesitated, "dog."

"Oh, don't worry, sir. I'm not here to defraud you of your quality time with your family. But Mrs Holmes needs someone to carry her umbrella (and the dog, should we come to a muddy part of the path)."

"Well, she can't be paying you enough to justify you having to carry that … thing." Sherlock shuddered.

"It's not so bad, to be honest," John said. "I quite like dogs."

Before Sherlock could ask why anyone would even consider spending time with these insufferable animals, Victoria, already dressed in a fur coat and expensive looking boots, descended the wide, stony staircase.

"Help me, boy!" she shouted as a greeting. "Do you think it is easy for me to walk down these stairs? Are you waiting for me to trip, fall over, and break my neck so that you can inherit all my money? Hurry up now!"

Sherlock sighed, but eventually helped his grandmother down the stairs. John pressed a button next to the door and it slowly began to open itself, letting wind and rain and ice-cold air into the entrance hall. John opened the umbrella, while the dog nearly strangled itself with the collar while trying to get back inside where it was warm and dry. But it was all in vain, because John did not even blink, and dragged the dog along with him. Sherlock turned his coat collar up and stepped outside into the rain.

For a woman her age, Victoria was light on her feet. They soon had walked all the way to the iron gate that led onto the one-lane road. After crossing it, they made their way along a rocky path. John had to unleash the dog, and it basically was allowed to do as it pleased, chasing birds that sat cuddled together somewhere in the grass to escape the strong wind, and barking at the few other people they met.

Except for the dog, everyone was quiet. John was not allowed to talk – he was only there to hold the umbrella over Victoria's head. And Sherlock did not see any reason why he should converse with the old woman. And Victoria herself? She was quiet until they reached a little bridge that crossed a narrow stream. Then she started talking.

"So, tell me, boy," she began, "will you graduate from university soon?"

Sherlock sighed, because he was tired of everyone asking him that question over and over again. So he told Victoria what he had already told his mother – which was that he hoped to graduate this Christmas.

That was not nearly soon enough for his grandmother. "Look, boy," she said in the voice she always used when she wanted to share her opinion on a topic she knew her opposite would disagree on. "You're 23 now. You've never worked a single day in all those years. Don't you think that it's time you started to work? I mean, why are you even studying? My husband never learned anything and he earned a lot of money anyway. Don't you agree?"

Sherlock really did not want to have this conversation with his grandmother because he knew that none of his arguments would count. Still, he said, "Father went to university."

"Those were different times. And your father paid for his education himself. You just assume that we will pay for all your expenses."

Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it again, and opened it a second time to say, "Why am I even listening to you? This conversation is utterly pointless and I don't want to continue it." And with that he began to walk faster.

"No, boy, wait!" Victoria bickered, while she caught up with him. "As long as you are here in Scotland, living under my roof, eating my food, your opinion doesn't count. And I have some more questions for you, which you are going to answer right now."

Sherlock decided to change his tactics. He turned around fast, facing his grandmother, a big smile on his face, saying, "All right, then. Ask away."

He had expected Victoria to look confused, but she only looked contented that her authority had broken her grandson's will. If someone looked confused (and a bit wary), it was John. It was as if he knew that Sherlock was up to something.

"That's better," Victoria remarked happily. "Tell me, boy, why aren't you married yet?"

Sherlock snorted.

Victoria ignored him. "It's true that a man can achieve great things in this world, earn money, become wealthy, make a living. But, to be honest with you, a man needs a pretty wife at his side, preferably from a prestigious family, who supports him and with whom he can share his fortune. Otherwise you lead a lonely, miserable life.

"Now, I know what you are going to say, that you are too young to get married, with 23."

That was not what Sherlock had wanted to say, but he led Victoria continue with her lecture.

"But look at my dear sister Margaret. She got married when she was 21. And she achieved everything she had wanted in her life: she married a wealthy man, she lived in a nice house, she had her horses, her dogs, and her children, and her husband truly loved her."

Now Sherlock simply had to interrupt his grandmother. "I am a man who lives in the 21st century, not a housewife from the 1950s. I have other goals than horses and dogs and children and houses and a husband who truly loves me."

John could not stifle a laugh, but he was able to disguise it as a cough. Sherlock quickly glanced over at him, then looked back at Victoria.

"Let me finish, boy!" she snapped. "Your parents got married when they were both 21 and that was in the 1980s, so not a very long time ago. And you are 23 now. So, tell me, when can we expect a happy announcement?"

John coughed again, but Sherlock simply said: "Well, maybe I don't want to get married at all. Marriage is an unnecessary, antiquated institution. People would be better off without getting married. And while I'm at it, I have to say that I also fail to see a reason why I should share my life with another person. I'm quite satisfied with it as it is. There is not much I'm missing out on."

Before Victoria had decided if she should be angry or shocked at her grandson's impertinence, John said, "Ma'am?"

"What is it?" she snapped.

"There are some horses over there. Should I get Lizzie?" John asked.

"Why would you want to do that?" Victoria replied, confused. "Lizzie will not harm them."

"No, I meant," John stammered, "maybe the horses are scared of Lizzie. You never know. So, just to be on the safe side …?"

"No, Lizzie needs her freedom. Leave her be. Anyway, we're not going that way. We won't even come near the horses."

As soon as Victoria had said that, Lizzie raised her head, picked up the scent, and started running towards the horses while barking so loud that Sherlock was sure you could hear her back at Holmes Manor.

"No, Lizzie!" Victoria shouted, snatching away the umbrella John was carrying. "Bad girl! Stop it! Come here this instance!" And she started to waddle after her dog.

"I know how you're feeling, sir," John said suddenly, while they were both watching Victoria trying to catch Lizzie who was busy chasing after the horses.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock asked.

"My family is just the same," John explained.

"I doubt that," Sherlock said coldly.

"What makes you say that?" John asked, confused.

"Well," Sherlock said, taking a deep breath, "for once, your family isn't very rich. Otherwise, you would not have to work here to be able to pay for university. You would be able to spend your summer vacation doing useful things, like getting some practical experience. You're training to become a doctor, obviously, and although your parents give you a hard time sometimes, they are genuinely proud of you for being the first person in your family to graduate from university. They are disappointed of you for two reasons: the first is the same one my grandmother was nagging me about just now, namely that you don't have a girlfriend yet. And secondly, you want to join the military, which they are even unhappier with than your private life. Therefore, I don't think that you know how I'm feeling and that our families are the same."

"How-?" John started, but exactly at that moment Victoria returned, panting and puffing, carrying the dog.

They returned to the mansion in silence. Sherlock was deep in thought, as usual, Victoria had forgotten her anger about Sherlock due to the little adventure with the dog, which had tired her, and John was wondering how Sherlock could possibly know all these things about him. When the heavy, oaken door shut behind him, Sherlock noticed that he had only spent little more than 24 hours at Holmes Manor and that he was already feeling as if he was going insane, due to the lack of activity his brain needed more than a fish needs the water to survive.


End file.
